The Great War
by Foacir
Summary: So long as the blood of the dragon prince runs strong in her rulers, the glory of the empire shall extend in unbroken years. But should it fail, what shall happen to Mighty Tiber Septim creation? It is a dark age for the empire. When the elves rise in the south, claiming ownership of Tamriel, can Titus Mede the Second stop such an advance?
1. Elven Domination

Lord Naarifin

Lord Naarifin sat calmly on his saddle, covered by his light armor of moonstone, carved out of a great block of the ore. The armor was trimmed with satin, red as blood, and gold fabric. His bodyguards often used to admire such a masterpiece work of elven smithy, but that afternoon, they were far too concentrated in the slaughter on their front. The honor guard, composed of young men from the nobility, was remarkable in their own way, all coated in heavy plates of the traditional gilded elven armor. These weren't the kind of men that adorned themselves.

Then he turned his head and his gaze to the great walls of Leyawiin, once imposing, now highly burnt and pointed by deep holes, made by the huge engines of war bought all the way down from Valenwood. The commander of the garrison was a fool, and fell in each trap and trick that Naarifin tried: The result was the posing of a great ram at the thick gates, made of old heavy oak and reinforced with iron. The gates had the insignia of Leyawiin and the house Caro: the white steed. _O, the irony. My steed is as white as theirs._

"Send the ladders." His squire, always alert of his master's wishes, took a horn to the mouth and sounded a complicated amount of notes. These were simple noise for untrained ears, but for a general as graduated as him, it seemed like someone was talking in a perfectly understandable language. _Go-Wall-Ladders-Assault. _It was simple, and more effective and deadly because of it. A detachment of infantry advanced, carrying heavy steel polearms in their hands and the heavy siege ladders in four columns. The enemy, completely concentrated in the gateway and trying to burn the ram, only recognized the danger when they heard the characteristic "thump" of wood against stone. A handful of them regrouped at the battlements, but with a sign from Naarifin, a cloud of arrows took the bulk of the defenders down. That battle was the third clash of forces, and the Nibenean garrison was decimated to one tenth of its original force. Taking advantage of an open way into the city, half of the army, commanded by less-ranked captains, hurried toward the ladders. _Let them go. The Cyrodiilic think that they have Talos's protection. Let's wake them up._

The enemy was completely lost and confused. From atop the hills near the city he could see a handful of men, including the count, losing heart and retreating to the inner fortress of the castle, closing the graded portcullis behind them. A captain tried to make order in a square, but it was too late. The great gate broke, sending shards of oak towards a thin and weak line of spearmen that tried desperately to hold off Naarifin's swordsmen. Suddenly, the ram was burning, and his men retreated, taking the burning machine with them. Now, with half of his army advancing on the walls, he had more than two thousand mer at the walls, cleansing the battlements of any defender. _It doesn't matter if we lose a machine. These can be replaced._

-Forward to the city. – Said the General, in a low voice that was heard over the chorus of metal clashing, men shouting and fire burning. Without waiting, Naarifin rode his horse through the narrow trail that went downhill. By what he could see, the battle was over. The only thing that could effectively delay the conquest further was the barricading of Castle Leyawiin. But even that wouldn't take too much to overcome, thought the elf, while he rode all the way against the breach on the gates, where a line of spearmen, a handful of levies clad in suits of padded armor and with forks and pikes at hand, held defense against a group of swordsmen. Looking to his sides, he saw that the bodyguard was already there, forming a large line of cavalry at high speed, and the fearful soldiers that guarded the destroyed gateway broke formation and ran away, forgetting that simply extending their weapons could make a bloody stop to Naarifin bold charge.

The men-at-arms, taking notice of the retreat, advanced further on the damaged gateway, and inside the city as well. Naarifin dismounted. He evaluated the situation: Two hundred swordsmen and thirty knights at his immediate command; The rest of the army was cleansing the battlements, firing the siege machines, or waiting outside the city, and would take too long to be amassed and brought to the gates in time. Until then, he knew that the castle would already be locked heavily and readied for another siege, and the lord wasn't willing to waste more time and mer. He finally made a decision. – You. – He pointed a moonstone clad footman – Go tell the captains to move their armies inside the city. Carver – That time he pointed the leader of his bodyguard – The command is yours; go with the messenger.

Naarifin sheathed his sword, and mounted his horse again. He looked at the walls, pointed with ladders. – Ten of you swordsmer, go out and take two of these ladders, then follow me to the castle. The rest of the mer, with me! – The lord went on his horse, in a quick trot, followed by the men-at-arms, through Leyawiin Main Street, once crowded, now awfully silent and empty. Mounds of bodies of citizens and soldiers, victims of arrows and catapults projectiles, were put at sides, their dried blood mixed with the fresh, spilt by Naarifin's troops that were now quickly sweeping across the city, putting any defenders down and securing elven control. They dissolved into the smaller streets, advancing over the mudded soil and gathering themselves on the richer district of the city, now deserted, with a large house now highly burned, result of a magical bolt of fire, made by the elite sorcerers from the Dominion's army. As they advanced over a natural bridge of stone and dirt, the swordsmen, that were also Altmer, and thus excellent magicians, gathered in a two-man thick line in front of the portcullis. The front line crouched, and the mages cast their spells; some used shock, others used nature's force, most used fire, and as a result, the thin wall of iron was shattered, broken and melted so hard that most of it dropped on the floor, useless. The courtyard, though, was filled with the rest of the garrison, though the well-known count guards, clad in ebony, were nowhere to be seen.

- To battle! For the Thalmor! – Shouted Naarifin, and his own troops were bolstered by the incursion troops, coming from the city's inside. The troops charged, brandishing spells, blades, bound or elven made, and wearing moonstone, and were blocked by a large round shield wall, where the despaired imperials held, fearfully. The captain, though, a huge Nord clad in the traditional Cyrodiilic plate, swung a large greatsword, and shouted to his men to take heart and attack. Then, the courtyard from Castle Leyawiin became a bloodbath, with both warbands clashing and killing themselves, with the magic and blade skill at his side and the numbers and armor at the imperials advantage. Naarifin was on his early fifties, but still he danced through the enemies, tearing their pads and chainmail with his strong, sharp ebony katana. A man came with a spear, and buried it on Naarifin's steed, and the old mer jumped from the saddle to avoid getting stuck under the horse's massive weight. He landed, and when he got up, he saw the captain.

_By the eight, what this man lacks in intelligence, he surely has in strength._ The man's armor that he mistook for steel was made of orichalcum, molded in a Cyrodiilic plate, and his blade was a sharp piece of ebony.As Naarifin watched, the Nord broke the pauldron of an elf, and tore his arm off. The lord, watched by the irate captain, answered tearing the throat of a guardsman, breaking mail and cutting boiled leather. The Nord gave a roar, and charged at Naarifin. The soldiers stopped the fight, and retreated to the courtyard's sides, watching the epic fight.

The old strength from his golden days was coming back to the lord, and Naarifin evaded the initial blow, dodging sideways. The lord stabbed with his blade at the man's back, but the orichalcum didn't give in. The captain, feeling the blow, made a half circle with his left feet, and swung the hard greatsword on his shield. Naarifin, winded, staggered backwards, and swung his blade on a slit on the Nord's shoulderpad. The captain parried with his weapon, and putting his huge strength on one blow, he descended his blade on the lord's shield, breaking the relatively soft moonstone and shattering it. Naarifin, though, found himself at an inch from the Nord shoulder as he evaded right to escape from being crushed, and stabbed furiously at it, sliding the metal on the breastbone and turning it to avoid pinning it to the bone. The elves cheered with delight, and charged with a renewed vigor, pushing the daunted imperials over the inner walls of the courtyard.

Naarifin fought harder, along with his fellow mer, until the guardsmen routed, desperately hitting the gates with their weapons and fists. Some turned around, and threw their weapons on the ground.

- Execute all of them. I don't want slaves. – A knelt man shouted, cried, and in their voices was something inhuman, the pitch of a pig on the butchery. – Nor prisoners. - Naarifin knelt, restriped the strips the loose strips on his cracked boot, a gift from an enemy warhammer, and took off his helm. His long and dark hair was sweaty, and his face was bleeding from a cut on the right cheek.

- Hey, lad. Bring me a bottle of water, and tell a bodyguard to ride back to the walls and bring Carver and the rest of the army in. – The Lord took the bottle, drank a sip, and poured the rest over his head, taking pleasure on the cleaning of the dirt. He found the steed on the floor, breathing hard, with a bloody hole on his right side. The horse was quiet, and Naarifin uncovered his head, to show the place where the unicorn's horn had been cut off. He found himself sitting at the horse's side, calming him, comforting him, and singing a healing spell. The spell had no grammatical notion; it was an instinctive song of flesh, bones and life, of courage and intelligence, of skin and leather. Naarifin stopped it, seeing how the large hole where the spear had lodged being filled with flesh and covered with silver leather. He stood on his feet, and realized that the spell took more than he had thought. The advanced age was taking his tool on him. There were tales of old times, when old elves would live for centuries, even a millennia, but these days were long gone, since the day when the Crystal Tower crumbled on its own weight, put down by a daedric horde and its dark wizardry.

The horse was too weak to be mounted, and the maximum it could do was simply stand up. He wouldn't need a horse inside the castle, anyway. There was still work to be done. The oaken gates, a perfect copy of the outer wall's one, reinforced with old, but not rusty iron, and emblazoned with the white steed of House Caro. The count was surely inside, planning his escape with his ebony guard. The army didn't take long to be moved inside, and the mer-at-arms that swept across the city were amassed on the courtyard. Naarifin requested an audience with the Count and the Countess, but received no other response than a bunch of badly fired arrows. The courtyard was filled with mer, and took long to make space enough for a ram to pass, and be posted on the massive gates.

_So much time lost. By now the count might be running away on a secret passage. _But by his knowledge of the Count's courage, he was sure that he would take his men and defend the castle until all of them fell. The gate was broken, then, and the horde of mer rushed to take position inside the main hall. Naarifin himself entered through the shattered gates, and his man took position on the pair of stairs that surrounded the throne, reading arrows and preparing spells. By what he saw, though, that would be useless, for in two high thrones were a warrior and a mage.

- Count Darius Caro and Countess Mary Caro. How wonderful to make your acquaintance. I am honored to meet you under such fine circumstances. – The count wore a fine ebony armor, with the helmet molded in the form of a steed's head. The result was ridiculously grotesque. The countess, though, wore robes of a wizard, and had a warding wand on a hand and a staff on the other. Around them, though, was the fearsome Nibenay Guard; man covered in clothes that depicted the white steed, but under adorns Naarifin knew that they were armored with the best ebony money could buy.

- How dare you come talk to me like this, your elven demon? Your people will pay for this war, and the emperor will have your head on a pike and adorn the top of the Imperial Palace! – Caro's head was red as a tomato on his fury.

- Surrender now, _Count_, and I will forget this insult and assure you that you and your retinue will be well treated.

- No. You will not have Leyawiin. Not while I live.

- Your little fool. Leyawiin is already mine. And about your life, that can be easily arranged.

The count let out a barked laugh, and with a sign, his men covered the thrones on a round and nigh impregnable wall of ebony. – Try to break through ebony, Naarifin. Show me your strength.

Naarifin smiled. He knew exactly what to do, and the idea gave a honey-sweet taste to his mouth. _Yes, yes… It is perfect._

- You know, Count Caro, the secret of our old and proud mountains? The old Ehlfolney, the bones of the earth, were scattered through the world. Some, though, united themselves and formed a nation, the New Ehlfolney. But when the wild ones came and asked for a place in the country, they were denied. And a huge war took place, and this very war reshaped the world, formed oceans, rivers, plains… And the Ehlfolney who survived were so weak, that they hid under the earth. Their form was still visible, and so came the mountains. But their fingers… They used fingers to communicate with their brothers, and with the skies of Aetherius. When they did so, a beam of energy would appear. That's why some parts of a mountain are called the _Fingers of the Mountain. _Do you recognize that name, Countess?

She did. He knew she did. She shrieked, wildly, and shouted at the guardsmen to break formation and run to the inner castle. They did not even have the time. The last thing that the noble lords of Leyawiin saw was Naarifin, and his hands filled with lighting.


	2. Captain's Talk

**Salutations, my good friends. This is the second chapter of The Great War, a series of fanfics that I am writing. My first one, in fact. Thank you for the reading, and if you like it, don't forget to review!**

**Enjoy it.**

**Lorus Lex, from Anvil**

- Wine! Sweet wine to calm your souls, the finest vintage in all of Cyrodiil!

- Blades! Daggers! Axes! The sharpest metal ever made!

- The finest steel and the hardest leather! Come to the Three Shields and protect yourself!

Lorus woke up that morning, his ears harassed by the insistent offers of imperial merchants. He looked up to the ceiling, where a candlestick hung, moving forward and backwards as the heavy wind blew through his window. He turned, sitting straight on the bed and fixing his feet on the wooden planks that formed the floor. Lorus yawned, tired. The last night surely was one of great work, with him chasing a Thalmor spy named Nasts, while he counted the imperial army's numbers. The elf took an alley, and feeling safe, risked writing a letter and tying it to a hawk's leg. The animal was now in the warehouses, going to serve as a dinner for a legionnaire, and the man was incarcerated deep on the imperial prisons, at the mercy of torturers.

Not that I like it, thought Lex, while he got up and filled a chamber pot. His solution would be a clean kill, but his superior, Darius Arcadia, descendant from a long line of imperial officers, ordered him to be carried off. Darius was now a general, a renowned lord from Chorrol, where he held many lands on the name of the Count. It granted him the higher echelon, as the leader of the Eighth Legion. The captain opened a drawer, and took a sponge. He began cleaning himself, in a simple and the less messy possible. Then he donned the armor, first a hauberk, which went all the way from the shoulders until the thigh, and a breastplate, adorned with arabesques and showing two signs which displayed the eighth legion's emblem and the badge of a captain, showing a sword and a shield in a red field. Then he wrapped his shoulders with a long piece of cloth, that time showing House Lex's symbol: An anvil in red and a fox in gray, over a golden field. The boots, of hard, dark leather, followed the uniform.

But his blade was something special. Some said that a smith in the Imperial City could make steel so perfectly that it wouldn't even weigh a thing. His sword, though some would say that it was too old, or the steel wasn't so alive, seemed to the captain the apex of quality. He had forged the blade himself, by the time he was only a lad struggling through his grandfather's legacy and climbing the steep legion's hierarchy, and it was almost a legionnaire as him. It was not the classical gladius, wielded by the traditional militia, but a legitimate bastard sword, in the High Rock style, made to either two hands or accompanied with a shield. He sheathed it, and went to his private chamber. As always, his squire, Claudius Dores, a native from Cheydinhal, had taken special care with his food. There was a goblet half-filled with his favorite mead, and a bowl of venison stew with half bread inside. Lorus sat on the chair, sipping the mead, but leaving the stew for a while. Annoyed, he moved the food aside and pulled pieces of parchment from a drawer. Lex hated the bureaucracy that seemed to move the Empire. Some were answers from letters of conscription, with results that varied from thanks for attention and an estimative of numbers from declarations and threats of rebellion in exchange for their participation in the war.

There were contracts, too. Those were the mercenaries needed to bolster local armies, and though Lorus did not appreciate them, He learned in field experience that the rabble was more for firing-fodder. The staunchest fighters eventually left the companies and joined the legion itself, even though such things took time to happen. He knew that he had money to hire at least a company or two of mercenaries, and he had the hope of taking the best he could. From his lands of Anvil, many men had already been drafted, and Lex trusted their leadership to his old Castellan, Ser Quintus Garn. Food was being harvested quickly, taken to the cities along with great numbers of fearful peasants, those who lived by themselves and those whose lord did not have a castle to protect them. Winter was turning its tide, and even on the Colovian lands, where crops would flourish even in that part of the year, were harassed by a dread cold and heavy, long rains. He finally finished the contracts: One for the Tais Bricks, from Morrowind, a branch from House Redoran that had, on many accounts, the reputation of the best spearmen in all of Vvanderfell, and one for the Drowned Ebony, a company that fielded experienced battlemages and warriors.

Hiring a company in times of war was like a game, played by lords and kings. Mercenary's commanders analyzed every point of the contractor: The field of battle, his position on a war, and, most importantly, the gold offer. Lex offered the sack of a captured castle, a chest of gold, and one especially big diamond to the first company that accepted; the second would receive a jeweled dagger, ten ingots of gold and one of ebony. It would potentially empty his treasury, but he was sure that it was worth it. There would be sack to be looted from the rich castles of Valenwood, and gold to be taken from defeated armies.

Or they could lose. He knew that if the Empire fell, Men would never have another chance to counter elven domination. He finished the contracts, and put them aside, letting the ink dry. The captain capped the inkwell, cleaned the quill, and brought the meal nearer. The stew was not as hot as before, but still had a bit of warmth, welcome on the cold climate that winter had brought upon them. The mead, imported from the north, on the frozen reaches of Skyrim, where the sweetest honey was made, had a special flavor, and melted away the annoyance brought by bureaucracy. He was halfway through the stew when a knock sounded on the door.

-Come in. – Lex said, calmly. His squire entered, nodded, and spoke:

- Sir, Aissa is out there. Should I call her in?

Lex suddenly righted himself on the chair, bringing fingers to the hair and bringing it into place. Claudius smiled, and signalized to someone on the stairs.

- Morning, Lorus. – Aissa entered, clad in armor similar to Lex's, but instead to a blade on the belt, she had a heavy-headed mace, made of steel. – Gods, you have really became one of them, don't you? Now I need to be _announced_ before I enter. – She had a smile on her face. It was rare for her not to have.

- I love the field experience as much as you do, but Darius saw fit to have me behind those cursed walls. What does a man do in a city? Grow fat and old while years pass and intrigue enlaces you and bring you closer. – He sipped the mead again. It was heavy and thick against his tongue, and Lex let it pass through his teeth and through his inner cheeks before swallowing it.

She lifted a brow, looking at him and at the mead. Lex look was clear enough. – Another goblet and a bottle of mead, please, Claudius. It seems that Lex is protecting his as a Dragon would protect their spawn. – Claudius hushed to a cupboard, pilling a glass goblet, a bottle of mead, and a small pot of spices.

Meanwhile, Aissa took a piece of parchment from the table. – The Tais Bricks? Really? I have seen a dozen captains sending their requests, and Tiberius, from General Dante, has offered them eleven chests of gold and an urn of jewels.

- Well, I had to make a contract. Have you ever thought about the fact that they might choose me? I must have something to offer. – Aissa look, too, said what she thought about it. _Maybe it was a ridiculous request. _Claudius came back to the table, putting the platter over the desk and filling her goblet. She took a sip, and messed his curls.

- And how are you going, Dores? Is Lex treating you like a slave? I could have you in my tower, and you would swim on mead and eat sweets all day.

- Aissa. – Lex talked, while Dores flushed. – I would thank you if you stopped trying to take my men to your company.

- Oh, of course. It isn't my fault that your men are so well trained. You could give us a lesson and make a favor to the legion. – Lex knew she had been trying to take recruits from his division and gather them under her banner, the hammer and the tongues from House Steelheart. Fortunately, none had defected.

He smiled. They had grown together, and Aissa had always been like that. – And before you drink all my mead, could you make me the courtesy of explaining the motive of such visit? – Lorus got up, and went to the window. The captain didn't see it, but he was sure that she had a brow up and half a smile on her face.

- Is that so? Can't friends visit each other for the simple pleasure of company? – She laughed, as Lex's sarcastically credulous face looked at her, showing what he thought of it.

- Well, it is rare for you to even wake up at that hour. Rarer for you to leave the mess hall and come talk to me or to anyone. – She wasn't the perfect example of a captain, but her insights of battle tactics had saved a warband more than once. Aissa lifted her arms in surrender.

- Damnit. You know my habits too well. – Her smile receded, and she talked seriously. – You got an order. – He turned from the window, and faced her.

- From who? – In the Imperial Legion, it was common to send parts of legions out in scouts, or in special missions, but the request worried him further.

- Titus. The emperor himself. You better sit. It is a worrisome history. – Lex pulled the chair back and sat. – You know that Naarifin has already taken Leyawiin. By all accounts, the Count foolishly wasted men in attacks at lord's camp. A tattered messenger has come to us, claiming that he has left the city to crime and chaos after sacking it. He is slowly marching to Bravil, and his troops are not as fast as they could because of the siege machines he bought from Valenwood.

- Bravil's Count is having a hard time keeping the city under control. If it gets besieged, the populace will surely break into violence. While at it, though, Naarifin sent a small branch of his army, even if the messenger did not let it clear about how small it is. They marched through Elsweyr and took Skingrad by surprise, capturing the city and besieging the castle. Hassildor has sent word that supplies are short, and we need to put the army down before the walls are breached. Have you ever seen Skingrad?

Her question was sudden, and Lex was concentrated on her explanation. – At a distance, while passing through the West Weald and excursing throughout Valenwood. Why?

- Then you have seen where its castle lies, over a high and steep cliff. They are going to squeeze themselves on a bridge, and that's Hassildor's advantage. Oh, another thing. Skingrad's Mages Guild and Fighters Guild refused elven control, and blockaded a street. They are holding for the time being, but Captain Syralle will manage to get past their guard soon. – She said, pointing the name of the elven commander.

- How many men am I bringing with me? – Said Lex, frowning.

- Me and Tullius's companies and Prince Indarys retinue of knights. The count's son could not bear leave such and "adventure" behind. We agreed, and I don't see why you wouldn't agree too. So I admitted him.

- How many men do you have?

- A thousand and thirty in mine. Maybe seven hundred in Tullius' retinue, and the knights from the Order of the Thorn. – A knightly order was generally composed by thirty or more heavy armored knights, plus double that number in squires and servants. In a prince's retinue, though, there was bound to be at least fifty, counting a hundred or more men.

- Summing it up, maybe two thousand and five hundred, with eight hundred or so of stewards and engineers. It will be hard to advance on all the mud that dot the imperial reserve. But I suppose we will arrive. – Lex finally drank the rest of his mead. – Thank you for the information, Aissa.

- Of course, Lex. My men are already ready to march at any time. – She got up from her chair, and opened the door. Before she could get out, Lorus said:

- Aissa. – And she turned. – When? – He asked, knowing that she would understand the question.

- Tomorrow's morning. – And she closed the door.


	3. The Dangers of Power

**Hello again, readers! I am sorry for the huge delay on this chapter. Time didn't fit, so I finished when I could. This chapter is for Titus Mede, as many of those who come to read this story come in hope of reading a chapter of his. Taffia, this chapter is for you! Enjoy, and don't forget to review! Constructive criticism is welcome!**

THE GREAT WAR – CHAPTER III

TITUS MEDE II

The Imperial Throne Room was a mess.

On the huge, circular table, with room for a hundred and a half men, sat all the hundred and half men: Formal Councilors; Lords from faraway lands; kings of petty monarchies; Knights of great and small renown alike; and all of them were talking, at the same time, in groups of discussion of three, four, five, a dozen, making enough noise to wake a dragon.

On the opposite side of the massive oaken double door, there was a platform, and three thrones. Surrounding the throne, were the Emperor Protectors: The greatest knights from Cyrodiil and High Rock; the mightiest Carls from Skyrim; the powerful Guardians from Morrowind. All of them wore ebony mail and scales, covered with gold-and-white signets of House Mede: The ancient colors from the Septims, inverted. Knelt, they surrounded the thrones, silent and deadly. They were the Eyes, the undoubted greatest warriors in the land.

The three thrones dominated the end of a column-made corridor. To the right, sat the High Chancellor Ganthor, a small, strong Breton, who bore a scaled armor of blue resin, trimmed with gold, and the symbol of the College of the Whispers; he was almost bald, although perfectly shaved. He was probably the only practical Synod in that era. To the left sat the Empress; or she would sit, if there was one: at twenty five years old, the Emperor was still unmarried.

At the highest seat on the Council Hall sat the Emperor, Titus Mede the Second, Sovereign of the Ruby Throne and Heir to the Septims. He was slender, with strong, small muscles and a long hair, which reached his mid-neck; it was as dark as a crow's feather, and adorned with the famed Ruby Crown, a beautifully crafted circlet, made of gold, silver, and decorated with all jewels known to men. He sat straight, with his blade at hand by the side of his throne. He was a good fighter, having had his lessons with Garanoth, a huge wood elf, undoubtedly the best swordsmer of Tamriel: Covered in ebony scales and plates, he made a fearsome figure, staring at the mess made by the councilors.

- Silence! – Shouted the emperor, as he rose to his feet. His voice filled the room, and suddenly the world became silent. – We cannot afford to stand idle on suppositions and guesses. – Titus sat again. – We must device a response to the Thalmor, and fast.

- We must answer in kind! – Shouted a Breton. – We should invade Valenwood!

- Oh yes, and what would we do when we stop on the first city after a bloody battle, and discover that the Imperial Palace has been taken in our absence? – Responded a Nord, a huge man, covered in thick, blue linen. He displayed a scabbard on his side, where a sword would hang if not for the council section.

- We could leave a token force here, to hold them off…

Then arguments sprawled again, like mushrooms after a rain, as every petty lord tried to get the Emperor's attention. Titus sighed. That wouldn't be easy. But then, when had it ever been?

- Invading in kind is off question, King Darius of Daggerfall. Not while Naarifin's army is still in Cyrodiil. – Titus changed position. – But we must retaliate in some way, else we allow the elven armies to advance to our doorstep.

- We could meet them in field. – Said a Dark Elf. Tall, bony and dark, he made a daunting figure, his red eyes gazing at the Emperor. – We could stop his advance in the Niben's margins.

Even before the lord finished his phrase, Ganthor was already shaking his head. – No. We don't have enough strength to battle Naarifin on open field. His battlemages and archers are far superior in numbers to ours. They would ravage the Legions.

- And what about the siege of Skingrad? – Asked the King of Sentinel, Senes. – Notice is that a branch from the elven army has crossed the west weald and reached the city. Hassildor has sent for help.

_And how do you know that? _He was not surprised, though. It was obvious that these Bretons would try to establish themselves, and the only way they knew to do so was through politics. – I took the freedom of sending a detachment of men under one of my best commanders, in order to free the city. – He didn't say too much, but gave the message. There were too many ears, and for Lex's safety, he would try to keep the details a secret. By now, the Captain should be marching through Weye, in direction of the hardest campaign of his life. _I hope I did not send him to his death. _To defeat a Thalmor detachment with two thousand men would need a huge amount of cunning and luck. But that was the motive that made Titus sent Lex in the first place.

- I wish the best for him, then. – The king's eyes were empty. _Nasty trick, that one. _Titus had always relied on his capability of reading other's emotions through their eyes.

- And about the Elven threat from the south, I will make sure that Naarifin will get delayed. The Imperial fleet has been ordered to go down the Waterfront and confront the war galleys from the Aldmeri Dominion, and the College of the Whispers has moved its battlemages to the battle fronts. – Ganthor spoke, explaining the situation to the lords. As he finished, silence installed itself on the room, for the second time. And the last, thought the Emperor, as he reached for his swordbelt.

- This meeting is over. I thank you, councilors, for coming. – Titus broke the silence, and got up from his throne. He tied the blade back on his hips, the only weapon in the council hall. He began descending the steps, as the High Chancellor said, with his grave, strong voice:

- All salute Emperor Titus Mede, the second, Sovereign of the Ruby Throne and Lord of the Imperial City! – And the councilors shouted in response, before flowing like a river through the large, oaken doors, now open. Then, only the Eyes remained in the room, along with Titus and Ganthor.

- I hope you know what you are doing, Ganthor. I heard that they filled their ships with battlemages, archers and worse things. – Rumors told about a Dragon under the Elves, and huge machines operated by massive goblins. The Navy would have a hard time resisting them through the Niben, let alone defeating it.

- The Synod will be ready, Emperor. – The chancellor bowed. – We always are. – He was already on his late forties, and nearing the end of his youth. He was not as strong as before, but his wisdom and intelligence had only increased.

- What about Lex? – The emperor took the crown off, rotating it on his hands.

- The captain has left the Imperial City at dawn's break. He has crossed the bridge and passed Weye by midday, and is marching through the fields of the imperial reserve. He commands a retinue of four hundred horsemen, fifty knights, one thousand and five hundred footmen and six hundred archers.

- Good. I will still make a general out of him. Have a good day, Chancellor. – The emperor put the crown on again, while making his way through the council hall, until the round corridor. Two of the Eyes followed him, the closed helms giving nothing about their thoughts. _Silent and deadly, as they should be. _They followed Titus as he climbed the steps of the White Gold Tower, until his favorite room.

_The artifacts room._

Inside the place was dozens of displays, all filled with strange artifacts and powerful tools. He followed on a corridor, only to find himself on an eastern storage. From a high display, hung a complete set of Indoril armor, as well as a blade burning on blue fire, a ring emblazoned with the Mournhold kingdom symbol, and a sword made of stalhrim. As he progressed on the room, he finally reached the end, decorated with a large display case, wider than most.

Under the strong, enchanted glass, was a golden gauntlet, adorned and spiked, enchanted so hard that the energy could be felt from where Titus stood. Crossed above the Gauntlet, were two weapons: A small hammer, made of ebony dark as the abyss, with golden arabesques, and a dagger, the hilt of dwemer metal, and the blade made of stone, sharp stone as blue as a midday's sky. Those were the relics from Morrowind, owned by an imperial agent who had become the Nerevarine. For some reason, those were his favorite artifacts, and he loved to stay there and gaze at the mighty dwarven craftsmanship. At least he used to, before the war.

His Eyes followed him close, standing silent at his back. Their armor was a relic too, and he knew that there was a replica somewhere in the room. He turned around, with that in mind, but when he gave the first step, his instinct flared. There was something wrong. The eyes that stared at him through the helm were not blue, or green, or brown, or even red.

They were golden. And so was the skin.

They all unsheated the blades at the same time.

They raised the shields, surrounding Titus. He considered shouting for help, to run, but until help arrived, he would be under their mercy. Their daedric ebony shined perversely, the color of blood. Titus drew his dagger on the left hand, and posed against them with the ebony sword at his front. He would have only one chance; those weren't common soldiers. To defeat, or kidnap an Eye was no easy feat.

The first elf attacked, thrusting the sharp point through Titus defense. He parried, sending the blade sideways and throwing the dagger in a continuous movement. The dagger reached its target, but the emperor didn't stop to see the result: The other mer had already attacked, and Titus dodged out of the way, slashing his blade at his enemy's shield.

After an exchange of blows, the elf was thrown off balance, and Titus would have finished him off… If he hadn't felt a burning pain on his back, as the daedric ebony cut through his plate and scales. He turned to fight his new attacker, blocking once, twice…

Until the demonic metal shocked with the mundane, and the Royal blade broke in two. _Oh, Talos save me. _

He stabbed the elf with the half-blade, making scales recede and blood to drip out. He dodged a blow from the other, climbed the steps of the displaying platform, and turned the display case over his enemies as he jumped over them, the heavy ebony pulling him forward. The three tools were sent flying as the glass broke in a wave of fire and shock, and Titus took the time to slip between two bookcases that made the pseudo-corridor. Silence suddenly filled the room, as Titus crouched behind one cabinet, holding his breath. The only exit was on the other side of the room, and he had to deal with heavy armored and armed warriors. His thoughts stopped, however, when his eyes caught a golden glimmer.

_Wraithguard._

The emperor sneaked, tracing every step carefully, making no sound of armor. The elves were silent too, and nowhere to be seen. He took off his own gauntlet, while getting the glove to fit on his own hand.

And as the golden glove finally fit, A thousand needles prickled at his skin, sending roaring waves of pain through all his body. He thrashed and shouted, in pure pain, as the gauntlet seemed to sculpture at his fingers, from the nails until the elbow. A bookcase went down, sending scrolls, old pieces of paper and books, all over the corridor.

Yet, he found himself alive, knelt in pain, sure that no piece of flesh or skin had remained unscathed. However, as he raised the left hand, the skin under the ebony was as smooth as he remembered. His thoughts were interrupted, again, by the sound of metal cutting air. Somehow, he managed to turn, and put the Wraithguard between them. The metal shattered, in a dozen of pieces, and one penetrated the elf's armor, on the gut. He shouted, in pain, as re retroceded, hands at his stomach. Titus got up, and held the mer's helm with the left hand, as he punched the ebony with the right, the protruding spikes at his gauntlet shoving their way through ebony, leaving scarlet trails, as the elf thrashed and screamed. With a last hit, the Emperor sent the assassin flying through the room, a nasty crack being heeded as his neck broke against a wall.

He turned again, in hope to find the other mer. He was crawling through the mounds of books, until he took the grip on a glimmering weapon. _Keening._

It was his keening, though, that filled the room as the blade damaged him, his body unprotected against the dire magic imbued on the stone. He twisted himself in pain, trembling madly as his screams filled the room. He finally dropped the tool, only to curl himself on a tight ball. At his scream, the great double doors burst open, the iron locks finally unlocked. Palace guards poured into the room, to find Titus over mounds of paper, donning a golden gauntlet, along with a dead Eye and a sobbing one.

**And boom! A chapter ends.**

**About the Kagrenac Tools, don't be surprised. The Nerevarine was an imperial agent after all, and would be fairly understandable if Uriel called for the objects. As for the Eyes, they are indeed powerful, the equivalent of Almalexia's Hands.**

**Thank you for reading, and don't forget to review!**


	4. The Shadowbanish

**Good night, readers. I "chewed" on this chapter for a long while, changing this and that, and always consulting the faithful UESP, which has never let me down. I was planning on bringing another character on my narration, to depict the events in a troubled province, but I have changed my mind. At least for the time being.**

**And, Taffia, that was a real compliment. You are the reason that this story didn't stop at Chapter 2. To you, TheShadowOfTheWickerMan, I hope that I continue to live up on your expectations. And Jayden, to you, who is so anxious, there it is.**

**But, until then, there is a shiny new chapter for you all. I hope this makes you readers understand how powerful the Thalmor really are, and how they stretch fingers to all directions in preparation for future events.**

**Lorus Lex, from Anvil**

Snow had fallen on the Imperial City.

The Queen of the Cities was made of white, strong Ayleid stone, that after centuries of rain and wind, had finally grayed and softened. Still, the walls were strong, and the first buildings still stood as mighty as they did when their last stone was settled. The first snowfall, called The Messenger, had begun its wake yesterdays' night and the beginning of the morning. Pure white over grey, the city was blinding to see under the morning's sun.

Lorus advanced on his horse, making a spectacle for the people on their houses by the street sides. The steeds stepped on the ice, and behind them, the steel boots of the Imperial Legion made sure that none of it was left on the Golden Street. Ahead, a group of children that played with the snow stopped at the sight of the Cohorts, and dispersed to the nearby alleys. Elders and women watched from the high balconies, their faces dripping fear and despair. There are no lads. No guards, no younglings, nothing. All of them had been drafted. In years of war, there was the custom of able man joining the armies in hope of sack and glory along with the Legion; very few came back. Half of them would perish in foreign soil or left there on garrisons, and the rest would either go home, to families that may or may not forget them, or stay in the local garrisons as a man-at-arms or soldier. That left the fields unploughed, along with the harvesting groups restrained to a bunch of women, elders and children. In the cities, it would get worse as the war dragged on and the able man took longer to get back. Knaves and cutthroats would begin to den inside the walls, and the food's prices would begin to rise as most of it was sent to the front lines. The castles on the fields would rebel, as their own supplies were going to be taken by the armies, and garrisons begun to starve. In sum, the empire would be in tatters, whatever the result of the war.

His column advanced in the front, a hundred armored horsemen, three hundred spearmen, two hundreds swordsmen, and a company of archers. Aside from a third of the footmen and the horsemen, most had little to no equipment, ranging from the lack of a helmet or ragged mail to a rusty corselet of thin metal. Behind him, were Aissa's soldiers, all footmen, clad in similar plate, leather and mail, mixing forces of archers and swordsmen. On army's rear, were Tullius' soldiers, a similar cohort to Lex's, and Indarys' knights. The knights were their main hope as an armed force, armor clad warriors over pallfreys with mighty steeds by their sides, ready to charge through an enemy line like a knife against cheese. Their prowess and usefulness in battle was unchallenged, but the problems to move such an armored force were constant. Outside the city, down the hill and across the bridge, were the supplies' carts, moved by mules and commanded by experient intendents. The cohorts made their way through the Talos District, passing by the huge statue of Akatosh, and between the statues of great emperors, who had changed the empire for good. The beautifully carved figures of the leaders guarded the sides of the Main Avenue, like huge sentinels that would always be on their posts. The latest was for Martin Septim, on the right side, almost at the gates. The bastard of Uriel Septim was the last of the line, and had died on the Last Battle that ended the Oblivion Crisis. Guarded by the Champion of Cyrodiil, who cut the way through the daedric lines, Martin had shattered the Amulet of Kings, older than his bloodline, and was able to defeat Mehrunes Dagon himself. Tales told of how he turned into a huge dragon of flames, but they also told of how the dremora on the field knelt to him, and how he laid a curse on High Chancellor Ocato so that he would die years after. Whether all or none of these things were true, Lex preferred to keep himself to the basic story and preserve his ideals. Protect and serve. That's what we do. Simple vows, and he still could remember the green scent of the grove.

As he stopped in front of the gateway, the Captain heard the shouting inside the tower. Slowly, the wooden gates sprouted outwards, and the large portcullis moved upwards. When the gates finally stopped, he kicked his palfrey lightly, and they resumed their march. After the main gates of the Talos Plaza, there was a stony platform, where merchants could set their stalls and show their wares and where a stable had been built; both were painfully empty. And there was a large descent from the top of the Imperial City. Sitting on the top of a hill, the Queen could be seen from far from the flatlands which circled her, and it was always dreading to imagine a military force trying to force its way through the stairs, while arrows, stones and spells showered from the battlements above. Dreading indeed. Lex unmounted his horse, taking the reins on his hand, while going downwards through the steps. His mount resisted for a bit, but surrendered after some quick words and a small pull. "Calm now" ,thought Lex. "One wrong step and we will end up on the bottom of this hill, but not in the way which I would like it." The palfrey went without problems, however, and they reached the Golden Bridge in little time with no incidents.

The Golden Bridge, or the Dragon Bridge, was renamed by Titus Mede I after his successful march on the Imperial City through it. The poets loved to say how the Emperor had captured the city with less than a thousand men, while in fact the city surrendered to him and his marauders with little effort. Only after that the conqueror realized that, by capturing the Imperial City, he basically declared himself emperor. His first years were dire, as his inexperience combined with his crumbling empire caused riots and rebellions. In time, the lands went into peace, and the warring pretenders to the Ruby Throne bent their knee to the Marauder, who by then was called Titus Mede the First. He tried to change the Empire Signet from the Septim Dragon to the Medic Lion, but was strongly opposed. In the end, he resigned himself to invert the colours, but the Golden Bridge retained its new name.

It was more of a suspended highway than a bridge, in fact. In ancient times, the only way of travel was through boat or ship, and the City Island was in fact_ thirteen _islands. In some strange cataclysm, with causes unknown, large chunks of the old town were thrown into the Rumare as the islands turned into one. The White Gold tower passed unscathed, but the early Imperial Palace at its foot did not. That was in the Second Era, however, and nobody cared about repairing the outer walls or rebuilding the port, even less when the daedra took residence as Molag Bal begun his invasion. The City would only regain its former wealth and honor years after, when Tiber Septim formed the Third Empire and returned the Empire to its glory. It was him who constructed the bridge, a long limestone pass, made of different material than the rest of the buildings but as strong as them. In the beginning, there was only a large road, but as trade flowed again, a number of watchtowers and gateways were erected on regular intervals along the Golden Bridge. With the war on, the outer half of the large metal gates was closed, and the noon went and passed before they were finally at Weye.

Weye was a large merchant settlement, with thick, short walls around it. The entire village sprung from a tall Town Hall and an Inn, both twin buildings, which had contributed to the formation of the village. When a disgraced lord, supposedly from the Jarldom of Hroldan, went south after the Great Anguish, the emperor gave him Weye and the surrounding lands, granting his loyalty and winning a strong presence on the Bridge's foothold. The Town Hall, however, could bring people and settlers, but it was the Inn which attracted the merchants. The strangely large supply of Shadowbanish Wine and the possibility of staying for the time which the gates were closed made the inn a focus point for all kind of goods dealers. With the money, the owner rebuild it on stone, with stables and a large, open balcony at the floor level, with sight for the Imperial City. And inside of one of those balconies, were Ser Arnius Dores, lord of Hackdirt and father to Lex's squire. His intendents were at the tables, too, and most had a cup of water or vinegar or a mug of ale. By what he knew of the Lord Intendent of the Eighth Legion, he was not the kind of man who would let his soldiers go away without paying.

Lex dismounted again, putting his heavy steel boots on the cobbles of the road. Under the midday's sun, the snow was melting, and the wet stones beneath made the floor slippery under the metal of his heels. He commanded a stop to the army, and sent Claudius after Aissa. It didn't take long before she arrived.

- Did you call me, Lorus? - Said Aissa, rhetorically. She did not sweat a bit, not even under the helmet. Her black hair flowed from behind the head plates, and her blue eyes retained their common expression.

- Oh, no, sorry. I called the other Aissa instead. - Lex smiled, as he observed her in her feminine imperial plate. - Yes, I called. I need you to take the man to the gates of the town. I have pressing business with the Intendent.

She lifted a brow. They were still captains, on equal levels, but Lex was given the command of the army. And even if he was not, trusted him, she would still do him a favor.

- Well, Lex, Aissa might be a more common name than you may realize. And then, I don't see -many "Lorus" around. - She smirked. - Aye, I'll do that. But if you are going to the Inn, you better bring me a bottle of that famed wine, or I will drink from your own flagon. - She turned around and sprouted her horse, calling the men. When they saw that their captain did not object, they followed her in their normal discipline.

When he saw the men continue along the main street of Weye, Lex turned around and climbed the short stairs and opened the door, to go inside the building. Despite the time, it was still quite cold outside, and the warm air inside the Inn drove the chill out of him. The Captain continued between the tables, walking his way until the balcony. A waiter stopped him, and Lorus asked for a bottle of mead. - Dark mug mead, please. - As the waiter looked at his breastplate and saw the crest, he opened his eyes further and hurried inside. The men were still drinking, in peace, and did not seem to have noticed the army that passed by the town.

Lex finally caught the eye of a soldier, who got up from his chair and warned the Intendent, putting his hand on the Lord's shoulder. Arnius was sipping wine, common wine, while he watched the sunny Imperial City before him. When the man-at-arms touched him, however, he turned his head and heard the warrior. After a time, in which Lex kept making his way through the balcony, Arnius looked backwards, and saw the Captain. A smile spread on his face, as he left the goblet on the table and pushed his chair backwards, in order to get up.

- Now look who has come to meet me, the Great Captain Lorus Lex! - Dores was old, even for the imperial standards. On his fifties, the Colovian was as gaunt and dry as a dead oak, and as strong as one. He was one of the intendents from the Legion, but he had dedicated himself to the Imperial City back when he was still known as a unwise youngling. Time, however, had turned the passionate lad into a strong old man, but his amiable and animated personality still remained. Lex had met Arnius when he was ten, at a feast from Chorrol. Lord Goth Valga had announced a large pouch of gold as prize on a tournament, along with the hand of his daughter. The champion was a Carvain, from Bruma, who left north a chest of gold and a wife richer. While in the feast, Lex met the Knight of Hackdirt as a strong man, with a lengthy blond hair and a short scuffle. When he drunk the Duke of Colovia and Count Farwil Indarys down, Arnius was still sober, and retired to the courtyard. The memories still brought a smile to his face, and he grabbed the hand that was offered to him.

- Well, someone has to stop you from drinking the kegs down. - Arnius' smile widened. He was a simple man, with a simple happiness. He strapped his belt against the empty scabbard at his side, and took the tankard from the table.

- I hope that this someone isn't you. The innkeeper would love to have me pay for a bottle of Shadowbanish, but as you remember, my desires are simple enough to be resolved by common wine. - He drank his mug again. When the wind blew, he felt the strong scent of the drink. Yet, when the Intendent lowered the mug, he looked as firm as ever. - And, by your presence here, I suppose that we are supposed to get moving? That's too bad. They were awaiting for a warm bed at night, and I was waiting for the soldier's faces when they realized that they would pay. - He laughed loudly. - Now that's something I never tire of.

Lex laughed too, feeling relaxed for the first time since the 30th of Frostfall. He took his mug from the waiter's platter, and began sipping his new mead. It was strong and sweet, and sent fingers of heat along his chest. When they lowered their drinks, the Captain was dizzy, but Darius remained unchanged._ Alcohol is that man's water._

- Yes, why else would I come here? The camp is at the gates, to the west. I presume that you know about our mission?

- Of course. Nasty business, those Thalmor. But these old bones never lie, and I know that this is my last winter. I'm far too old, Lex, and I want to die with a flagon on my hand, or a blade. Or maybe both! - He laughed again. - Don't worry, lad. We'll be there. And our supplies, of course. I know that you prefer dry biscuits rather than a nice company on the march. - He finally dropped the mug, empty then, and put a silver drake inside it. - Men! Time to go. And time to pay, too.

Some were close to their conversation and heard everything that they said. But others were at the corners of the balcony, and when they heard the word pay, froze in the spot. And exactly as Arnius said, their faces were priceless, and Lex had to drown his mouth in mead again to stop himself from laughing. As he finished his drink, Lorus ordered one bottle of Shadowbanish wine for Aissa, and sat on one of the chairs from the balcony. He ordered another mug and kept sipping it, watching the Lake Rumare as it turned from gold to bronze under the sun. Twilight was falling when the Captain finally got up, putting twenty coppery drakes on the table, and grabbed the bottle of wine as he made his way through the Inn's main room.

He walked between the houses, while night fell over the town, and the streets begun to empty. Soon, Lex found himself tired and dizzy, inside an alley. By then, the bottle was open, with one third gone from the wine. It was watered down from the original Shadowbanish, but he began to see with clarity through night's mantle. Everything seemed detailed, the owls, the trees, the branches, the leaves falling, the figure on the top of the tree...

Lex stopped suddenly, just as air was cut and an arrow surged on the dirt in front of him. The captain hit the button of his cape, and the red wool fell on the floor as he pulled his round shield from his back. It lacked a spike, but was wider than the normal guard's shield, and as the captain lifted the plain metal, another projectile tucked at it before falling to the floor. Lex considered running away, under his cover, but as he deflected yet another arrow, he saw all the snow that laid over the nude branches, and another idea occurred.

He waited for another hit, and then charged at the tree, with the shield lowered. He shook the wood with such strength that shook his teeth and numbed his left arm, but a wave of snow fell on the soil. He heard a muffled scream from above him, and so he retreated and charged again, asking himself how many blows it would take.

It took only another.

The figure fell heavily on the snow. He moved swiftly, shoving his cloak aside, but Lex was faster still. The pommel of his blade hit the elf on his temple, and the mer stopped moving. The captain used his sword to move the Bosmer's hood, revealing a golden face... With a blue tattoo, in the form of a blade that turned on itself and transformed into a bow. He was smart enough to know _that_ insignia.

_So, it seems that the Dominion already knows about my mission_. He pulled his pouch, and as he feared, there was a piece of parchment sealed with a drop of golden wax. He already knew what he would find inside. He thrust the blade on the elf's throat, watching as his blood turned the snow pink, and threw the letter aside.

_So much for discretion._

**And, just like that, another chapter is done. I hope that the next one won't need so much time as this one did.**


End file.
